From Bitter Memories to Sweet Havens
by Rainsaber
Summary: D'Artagnan makes a dangerous self-discovery at the same time in which Athos prepares for a new change in his own life. Along the road, revelations between them both leads to something that may or may not have been present since the day they met. Mature audiences for later chapters. Slash references and content.
1. Chapter 1

**From Bitter Memories to Sweet Havens **

**Synopsis:** D'Artagnan makes a dangerous self-discovery at the same time in which Athos prepares for a new change in his own life. Along the road, revelations between them both leads to something that may or may not have been present since the day they met. Mature audiences for later chapters. Slash references and content.

**Author's Notes:** This story takes place about ten years after the first novel/movie-however you want to look at it. This is a bit of an Alternative Universe and I'm not sure how far off the mark I'm going to wind up, but that's what's fun about writing fanfiction, the adventure and experimentation that comes with it. I will however stick as close to historical canon and purposes as possible. When I fudge, I do it with love, and there will probably be a lot of fudging in places. It will likely be a long multi-chaptered story and on the slow-burn side of things for a while as I explore characters and setting. I'm basically letting the muses take me where they will on this. Make sure to read the warnings and enjoy if you choose to read on.

**Warnings:** This is an adult fic therefore I expect adults to be reading this. It is a SLASH romance story between Athos and D'Artagnan. The sections that warrant the rating/warnings will be clearly marked beforehand. Don't like, don't read, don't review, just ignore and look the other way. Otherwise any flames or abuse will be laughed at, NOT deleted, and kept up for all to see and judge for the future.

**Disclaimer:** The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.

* * *

**Chapter One**

D'Artagnan woke in a lazy sort of haze, not wanting to move for all the weariness he still felt from the night before. Instinctively, he stretched out, seeking that comforting warmth of another body, but found nothing. He cracked open his eyes and confusion gave way to the beginnings of a terrible disappointment. At first he thought there was no note, but when he dragged himself to rise and stop drawing patterns in the sheets with his fingers he moved one of the pillows by accident and beneath it, the very same one where his lover's head lay hours prior, was the piece pf paper.

He opened it and read the contents without any preamble.

He didn't even pull on his breeches when he got up and crossed to the dying fire. He carefully stoked it back to life and held the note to the hungry flames, watching it blacken and crumble with disinterest. That's all it was, disinterest. Maybe that's all he hoped it could be, but that's all he was determined to feel at the moment. Dawn hadn't even broken yet on his day off from duty and he was up at the same hour he was used to. Nothing would ever change that, and nothing would change the listless feeling in his chest. He had the sudden urge to run by the barracks and ensure that the recruits and those officers under him were operating as they should, but if word got back to Monsieur de Treville about his presence there he would never hear the end of it.

What was wrong with doing his job, his duty? He enjoyed it. It gave him something to do. For what else was there in its absence? His friends had long since retired and moved on in their lives to different occupations. Aramis to the church. Porthos to marriage and baronhood. Athos to a well-deserved retirement. D'Artagnan simply wasn't there yet, and hoped not to be for years to come. He still had things to do, responsibilities to take care of, his mother to support. There were a lot of men he was accountable for and that required him to be on call for anything, even at the expense of his own leisure.

"Leisure," he scoffed to no one but himself. "Where have you flown?" D'Artagnan sighed and ran a hand along his tired face and down past his small goatee that was in need of another trim. But what was the point? It wasn't as if he needed to keep up appearances to anyone today. And the dark bags under his eyes were the one tell he could never hide, trimmed facial hair or not.

He envied his friends. They were out of the corps now, free to do and pursue what they wanted. But the more D'Artagnan thought about it the more he realized that here was the only place he could think of being for the years to come. Even if he left for an indefinite amount of time, he would miss it. He would come crawling back like a disillusioned cheater to his faithful lover's side. He'd been told more than once that he was working too hard, and a small part of him wanted to admit that those officers and superiors were right, but nothing else could occupy his thoughts and properly distract him from things and moments like this, when the world seemed too heavy a thing to think about.

If D'Artagnan were honest, he would admit he was lonely and lost.

But he was still the stubborn proud person he'd been in his youth. And he was a Lieutenant of the Guard now, the real kind of leader he'd dreamed of being since he was a boy. He was living that dream. He had made it happen for himself, and picked up treasured friends and acquaintances along the way. It hadn't been without its price, but he had done it. Was it selfish of him to want more? Perhaps. But maybe that came from the realization of all he'd lost along the way.

Constance.

His friends.

His father.

D'Artagnan stood up and dressed once the note was fully consumed. He ran a quick hand through his hair and wished the room had a looking glass, but trusted that he looked put together enough to make the trek home. He opened the door as quietly as he could and wasn't surprised to see a certain little maid waiting for him, her curly brown hair put into a loose mop on top of her head. She winked at him with hints of a smile, and also with sad apprehension everywhere else.

D'Artagnan smiled at her because he had to. "Thank you Lotte," he whispered.

She cocked her head to the side and studied him. Lines around her eyes betrayed her real age, though she did an excellent job of hiding it to everyone else. "You know he won't come back, don't you? He's a wanderer, that one."

He nodded. "I know."

"Why don't you stay for breakfast," she offered, laying a gentle platonic hand on his arm. "The master won't wake for a few hours yet."

He shook his head a few times and took her hand in his in apology. "I'm all right, thank you."

"I don't think you are…"

D'Artagnan kissed her on the forehead and slipped a small pouch of coins into her laundry basket.

She caught his hand, took the pouch from him, and slipped the money down the front of her dress instead. "Sneak," she whispered with a smile. "Come back for a drink in a few days. We're getting some southern wine from your part of the country."

"Perhaps I will," D'Artagnan said politely before making his exit.

He descended the creaky stairs of the inn and threw on his cloak and hat before braving the cool dampness of early morning. Halfway home it started to drizzle rain, but he didn't quicken his pace for keeping his steps stubbornly even, because without that the pain became something more than an annoyance. The farther he walked the more he thought about pushing his visit to the barracks back until at least a few hours past dawn. If he couldn't walk properly that would invite too many questions he was unwilling to answer.

When he reached his apartments he snuck in on light feet, even though he knew the old landlord and his wife were both practically deaf. They were a sweet old couple who offered affordable housing and dinner with them more than a couple nights a week. And D'Artagnan took them up on those offers only when he felt badly about using work as a recurring excuse. It wasn't as if they were bad company, far from it. But every time he and Planchet left to return to their rooms, their ears rang and their throats were sore. He didn't know how the neighbors could stand them, and at first he didn't know if he would be able to when he had finally found an available set of rooms for their needs. But Treville had personally mentioned the lonely couple and that they had rooms on the third floor that were both hospitable and more soundproofed than the second story rooms that no sane person would want.

Needless to say, that second floor remained empty to this day.

Climbing the stairs aggravated his physical state, but he didn't make a sound, not even for relief when he mounted the last step. He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open, surprised to find the rooms warm and somewhat brighter than what they normally were at this early hour. D'Artagnan didn't need to look any farther than the settee for the culprit. He sighed and frowned down at Planchet who was half-curled half-splayed across the comfortable piece of furniture, snoring softly. He walked over to the fireplace and put another log on to keep the rooms warm. D'Artagnan couldn't complain because it was getting more miserable by the minute outside. And this was supposed to be their start to a warm summer?

The servant shifted on the settee and blearily tried to get up. "Master-"

But D'Artagnan pushed him down again. "Go back to sleep, Planchet. It's early yet."

Planchet shook his head. "What about-"

"I am going to do the same. Rest."

The servant needed no third bidding and went out like a light. Probably waited up nearly all night, D'Artagnan thought. _Exactly like I told him not to, blasted man!_ Sometimes he wondered whether Planchet or his mother worried after him more. It was a close race, especially after his mother had surprised him and Planchet both by coming up from Gascony to stay with him for a week. He knew well and good that Treville had been behind it, and he promised the man swift retribution with an open glare behind his dear mother's back. And damn him, the captain only smiled back at him!

One of these days…

D'Artagnan huffed and punched at one of the pillows on his bed to shape it into something more comfortable. As he pulled off his boots and changed into more comfortable clothes he hissed and had to grab onto the edge of the side table by his bed for balance. God, he hadn't thought it would hurt that badly afterwards. Granted it was only the first time he had given into those vices, and he had known it might hurt, but…in a way, it had been worth it just to know. He just wished he didn't have to face this morning by himself. Did that still make him naïve? He certainly couldn't call himself innocent in those matters anymore, but what did it really matter?

A bath would have been heaven, but since his eyelids were starting to pull themselves together of their own accord he decided he could wait. So he sank down onto the cool mattress, wincing as he turned over onto his side, and pulled the covers up over himself. He lay there with his eyes open for some time with nothing to do but think. When thinking quickly turned morose he turned over and pulled open a normally locked drawer in his small bedside table. Inside were a bundle of letters he'd received over the years. He pulled loose the one on the top and put the rest back in their proper place.

This paper he would never burn because nothing but fondness came to mind when he looked at Athos' comforting words.

The years had turned that innocent need for guidance into something richer, and while D'Artagnan had been ashamed of it at first, time helped him understand that friendship had many faces. What he still wondered was where friendship's boundaries ended and love's began. Was it possible to have platonic love for a friend? Yes. Was it possible to have a more intimate love in mind for that same friend and have it still remain a matter of friendship? If the answer was yes, D'Artagnan had long failed to understand how. If no, then that made matters much simpler. The only problem was the very same that most men suffered in various forms, a heart complicating matters for want of something more.

He finally understood why Athos abhorred any talk of romance.

It came years later, but he finally did.

And D'Artagnan couldn't blame him.

* * *

Planchet only slept another hour before he got up to make breakfast. The previous night had been a long one, and he had spent it willingly awake. Just in case. He thought he had spent it needlessly sometime close to the third hour past midnight, and was perfectly happy with himself about waiting up. For a small period of time, it looked as if things might not have gone as badly as he anticipated. But one look from his master when he did come home, kind words aside, confirmed his earlier suspicions.

He wanted to curse something but didn't know what.

That man for leading his master on.

His master's friends who left.

Himself for not having enough courage to deter his master from his rarely seen wants and needs.

Planchet sighed and shook his head. Maybe he wanted to curse them all and divide the blame equally. Either way, his master had still wound up with more unnecessary hurt that Planchet somehow had to figure out how to ease. He finished preparing breakfast and put a bowl over it to keep it warm before making his way to his master's room. He peeked inside first to see if he was actually asleep, and was surprised and pleased to find him so. Planchet left the breakfast on the side table and set to taking the laundry, emptying the chamber pot, and replacing the dirty water in the washbowl. As he did these things he did them quietly because his master was more of a light sleeper than he had been in previous years, and any lost sleep would show worse than what was already there.

Servants were by far not dumb or oblivious, at least the smart ones were. And Planchet liked to think he had some wit about himself. His master had certainly thought so and regarded him with a kinder disposition than his previous masters had. Monsieur D'Artagnan never thought him simple, and even trusted him with important matters that normally could have been given to some of his lower officers in the guard. It was something to be proud of compared to others in his occupation, but knowledge wasn't always power, and almost never a comfort when you were loyal and trustworthy.

Planchet knew that his master was overworking himself on purpose. He also knew that the lieutenantship his master held was not the core of the problem that caused him lost sleep, lost appetite, and uncharacteristic sour moods on occasion. No, the very issue lay next to his limp hand on top of the bedding. It also lay in that locked drawer by his bedside. It hadn't been in that room his master spent his previous night in, and it also hadn't been with that nameless person who Planchet would have loved to put a name to for the promise that he would never appear again. Servants, after all, were not without their network of friends in _all _sorts of occupations…

Suggesting a holiday had been out of the question, but it was becoming more and more apparent that his master needed one. Desperately. Planchet paced in the front room and wrung his hands. Pride was a hard thing to deal with, even if it was his master's health that was at stake. But Planchet knew that if he didn't do something drastic soon something worse might happen. He had seen older stronger men fall down dead due to stress. And that kind of death just didn't fit his master's character, nor Planchet's future prospects. With his mind finally set he closed the front door to their rooms behind him and hoped he wouldn't be heard on the stairs exiting their apartments.

* * *

"_D'Artagnan," someone called out in anger. _

_The person in question turned and was so surprised that he nearly pulled out his sword to put between himself and a storming Athos coming right his way. Part of D'Artagnan was so elated and overjoyed at seeing Athos, but the other part was terrified that he wouldn't get the chance to throw his arms around that beautiful dear friend of his. Athos pulled him into an alley off from the main street._

"_Athos," D'Artagnan sputtered in greeting. "What-"_

"_I would beg your pardon for my temper, but it is more than a relief to see that you are _not_ in fact dead as I had feared."_

_D'Artagnan blanched. "Dead? What would have given you-"_

"_Months of unanswered letters, boy," Athos growled, leaning in close. "What else was I supposed to think?"_

_D'Artagnan flushed. "Well…"_

_Athos tapped his foot and inclined his head for an answer, but D'Artagnan's mind was blank. All his traitorous mind could focus on was how…radiant Athos looked when he was angry. It was restrained anger, for certain, but a paler hint of what D'Artagnan had previously seen in their past exploits. Gone was the blind rage of the days past. Now the man just seemed to glow with life and purpose. And right now D'Artagnan was the focal point of that purpose. _

"_I'm sorry, Athos," was all he could find the words to say._

_Athos narrowed his eyes. "You and I need to have words. Now."_

_Before D'Artagnan could protest, Athos gripped him by the arm again and pulled him towards the street and away from Treville's offices. But even when Athos sat him down and let him have it, D'Artagnan couldn't force himself to think or listen rationally. He was just too happy to care. "I've missed you," he said without thinking._

"_As I have you," Athos relented. "Obviously."_

_D'Artagnan smiled and even laughed in relief. Those sparkling eyes were finally upon him again. They appraised him with concern, but their color and intensity only fueled his treacherous newborn love. His hand itched to claim Athos' on the table in front of him but he feared the consequences. As if sensing his train of thought, Athos reached forward and took D'Artagnan's hand, squeezing and testing its strength. D'Artagnan clenched his jaw shut and tried not to flush again. Instead he closed his eyes and latched onto that hand for all its worth. _

"_Are you well," Athos asked, worry lacing his words._

"_Very," he whispered._

When D'Artagnan woke, he groaned out loud, not just at the loss of the dream but also at what time it was. Half the day was already gone! He hadn't thought Planchet would let him sleep that long, but then he turned over and spotted food and fresh water in the basin for washing. He pulled his aching body out of bed, unable to stay mad at the servant any longer. The food was thankfully still warm. After that he gave himself a much-needed shave and dressed in his uniform with every intention of stopping by the barracks for only an hour. He had just grabbed his hat and cloak when Planchet entered the room with a note from Monsieur de Treville.

D'Artagnan cursed at the vagueness of the message but had to comply when his presence was requested. He didn't even question why it came on his scheduled day off that Treville knew about. He just hoped nothing had happened in his absence that gave cause for this summons. Training replacement officers to act in his stead hadn't been easy at first, but the boys had come a long way since those early months of uncertainty and hesitation. He had complete confidence in his men, even when that note from his superior came.

Treville's office was unusually quiet, but the secretary still bustled about as if it were any other day, coming in and out from behind the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Once he stopped and caught sight of D'Artagnan he saw him in to Treville's rooms where the captain was waiting for him. The two men greeted each other and the captain invited him to sit with him by the window-which was D'Artagnan's first clue that something was amiss. His second clue was that the captain seemed perfectly content, a bit wary, but also without any sense of formality.

"I am putting you on an indefinite leave of absence," the captain said.

D'Artagnan paled. Had he done something-

"I'm not sacking you, D'Artagnan-relax! You of all people wouldn't have a chance in hell of making that list. I was hoping you would have known that but it seems not."

"I…there is always room for improvement, Monsieur. I hastily assumed-"

"Yes, you did. I often ask your opinion of who could do with improvement, do I not?"

"You do, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said after he cleared his throat. "But might I ask why you believe this leave is needed?"

"You are working yourself into the _ground_, young man," Treville chastised. "Many before you, even in my day, have done the same and succumbed to their efforts in needless ways. I won't see you bear the same fate, and not just because you're the son of a dear friend. I did promise your mother and father I would look after you but I also refuse to watch any of my officers do themselves harm in the name of good for the rest of our lot. You have done your part and I would have you continue to serve your best but not until you have had _rest!_"

D'Artagnan was silent. It was all true, but part of him was still reluctant to accept it.

Treville folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. "Bertrand's death was a hard blow. I won't pretend to know the kind of pain you bore and still do, but your father would not want you to continue on like this. Would he?"

D'Artagnan looked away for the first time since their conversation began and tried to ignore the water that gathered in his eyes. "No, Monsieur."

"He would be very proud of you," the captain continued, softer than before. "There is no doubt in my mind about that. And there should not be any in yours. Take some time in the country and clear your head. I received a letter from Athos yesterday and he enquired about your welfare. I told him in a letter I posted this morning that he'd be able to ask you in person. He'll be expecting you before nightfall."

D'Artagnan smiled, eventhough he wanted to give Treville a healthy glare for all this work being done behind his back. Secretly, he was overjoyed at having the opportunity to see Athos again. And this time it could be on his own terms, their own terms, almost. There was some small part of him that quailed at the very idea. Could he trust himself not to give anything away to Athos, the most perceptive friend he ever knew? Could he even stay under his friend's roof and live the same lie he'd been living for the past several years? The questions alone wanted to send him running in the opposite direction.

The circumstances just weren't the same anymore. He took a risk last night, one that put a ticking clock of doom over his head. He woke this morning with answers and truth, but also with a grim realization that he had traded one decisive risk for a lifetime of them that could come without warning. It was an inevitability that D'Artagnan argued with himself for months after he rounded up the will to even start searching for love again, or something like it. Now, the consequences were real. They were no longer vague and shapeless shadows of possibility. He had asked his friends to face danger with him before, but this was something entirely new and infinitely more frightening.

And he didn't have a right to ask them this time.

This was his personal crusade and fate.

The less anyone knew, the better.

Treville stood up and went over to his desk, folding a letter that stated D'Artagnan's 'orders.' "How, where, and with whom you choose to spend your leave is entirely up to you," Treville continued. "I don't mean to choose your time or guests for you, but Blois isn't that far out of the way if you were intending to travel south and visit your family. In return for this I'll want a letter from you every week about how you're faring. Your return date will be up to me, so expect a long and well-deserved vacation."

Treville handed him the letter and D'Artagnan reluctantly put it inside his breast pocket. He let Treville escort him out the door and was told to go straight home and leave the city within the hour under threat of his own officers showing up at his doorstep to do the job themselves. D'Artagnan stayed silent and smiled politely through it all and thanked his captain. One thing he would certainly do on this unexpected leave was plan his long in coming revenge on the man. He would have ample time for it, and with Athos' help on the matter he was sure to have a sound and satisfying plan under his belt when he returned.

* * *

**A/N: I'm in the middle of writing this story as well, so repostings will come quicker than updates will. I've written a bunch of little one-shots for this universe as well, but I think I may hold off on posting them until I get a bit more of this story done just for consistency's sake. More to come soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I know you were behind this, you little imp," D'Artagnan groused. "So don't even think about denying it."

Planchet looked over at his master with the most innocent and angelic face he dared muster as they rode their horses further into the countryside. "I have never lied to you, master," Planchet replied, neutrally.

"Then you will admit your part?"

He looked into those glinting eyes of his master with the same courage in his heart that he had when he paid his master's captain an impromptu visit. He felt no remorse for it then, and he still didn't-even under the threat of a thrashing, which he likely deserved for his selfless efforts. "I do," Planchet admitted.

His master didn't promise retribution. Instead, he sighed, looked away, and stayed silent for the next half hour. Going behind his master's back wasn't that far from the coward's way out of things, but without any other options what else was the poor servant supposed to do? His master could ignore his sentiments all he liked, but he could never disobey a direct order from a superior. And it wasn't as if this was the first time he had dared do something drastic. He only hoped his master didn't put two and two together about his dear mother. But again, it was a necessary evil Planchet was willing to face. Things had gone well after that, for a time. Seeing him so worn down now was only proof that he had done the right thing.

"I haven't exactly made things easy for us, have I," D'Artagnan asked, softly.

Planchet looked at his master and chose not to respond. Instead he got a foreboding feeling that they should have stopped at the small town they passed a few miles back. "Would you like to stop for a rest, master?"

"No," D'Artagnan said. "Let's keep going. We're already over halfway there."

Even his master's horse didn't waver. The Italian-bred beast was a stubborn one, after all, sometimes more so than his master. It hadn't been a perfect match at first, but the beast had to be purchased out of need. The death of his master's previous horse struck him quicker than Planchet thought it would. The mare had been quite old and though she was a gentle and fiercely loyal one Planchet couldn't help but be thankful that she had quietly passed in the night from age. The alternative of his master having to put her down due to injury or illness would have been twice worse.

Phaeton, he had been so named, was entirely different. He was pure black, proud, and unusually brave. The horse's sudden and strange bouts of anger when threatened made him a true battle horse through and through. He had already seen his master safely through many battles. Planchet respected the horse for that fact alone greatly, so whenever the beast was in want of something Planchet gave it when he could. But now, the beast's steadfastness was no comfort.

"We _are_ making good time, then," Planchet ventured.

"And all the better for it. I'm fine, Planchet."

Planchet turned his gaze back towards the road and wondered how far they would get before he had to start worrying when his master would fall off his horse.

* * *

"Master, I truly think we ought to stop for a rest."

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to sigh out loud. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Where would you propose we stop, the patch of poison oak or the holly underbrush?"

The servant shuddered. "For my part, master, if it please you, not the holly."

D'Artagnan chuckled despite himself.

Leave it to Planchet to have a particularly harsh allergy to the one overly abundant plant used during the winter holidays. But on his conscience he couldn't blame nor poke fun at the poor man for it. If he did that meant offering up his own health matters into play. And his own allergy to…apples, of all things, was no laughing matter in the northern part of France. Everywhere D'Artagnan seemed to turn in his first few months in Paris and the countryside there was another tree or orchard of them. Every bakery and inn around Paris seemed to have nothing but apple pies, apple tarts, apple cakes, baked apples, apple loafs, apple cider, apple spiced ale, apple flavored wine-the list continued to grow by day and by year.

And to make things worse Porthos had been overly fond of apples.

_Suspiciously too fond_, damn him.

"Master-"

"Planchet," D'Artagnan warned, even as the sweat was beginning to do more than drip down his neck. "Not again. Enough."

D'Artagnan blinked again and grit his teeth together to stay awake. He was far from sliding out of his seat, but the uneven road wasn't doing him or Phaeton any favors. And he was embarrassed to admit that he hadn't thought about the consequences to their journey beforehand. The pain from merely sitting astride a horse was nearing an excruciating level. He was thankful most of their way was through flat lands, but up and down the recent valleys was sheer torture. There were many times when he wanted to shout it out across the fields just to be rid of the tension and pressure built up in his chest, but his pride kept him stubbornly silent.

He had wanted to reach Athos' house before supper and it looked like they were well on their way to achieving that goal. From his estimates they would reach the place within another hour, which was good time with the gathering clouds over their heads because the last thing D'Artagnan wanted was for them to get rained on or delayed any longer than necessary.

Irony, however, had a poor sense of humor.

Highwaymen jumped in from both sides of the road and blocked their way. D'Artagnan drew his horse up short, causing the animal to snort in protest. He laid a comforting hand on Phaeton and tried to calm him, though the horse continued to stomp his front hooves. Planchet cast a quick look over at D'Artagnan and he signaled the servant with a subtle twitch of his hand to be at the ready. Then, he turned his attention back to the grinning dirty men and barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course there would be highwaymen. Of course they would target him. And of course, on his first day off duty in too many months.

"Monsieur," the leader said, stepping forward. "Have you come to visit our country or pass through it?"

"Both," D'Artagnan replied. "This is _your_ country, you say?"

"Why yes! And the laws of our country say that you must pay a fee to pass through."

"A fee," D'Artagnan said, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. "How much?"

The leader pranced forward and circled both D'Artagnan and Planchet with an air of assessment. He made noises of affirmation, nodded his head a few times, and even ducked down to look at the underside of the horses. Planchet spared his master one curious and disbelieving glance from his firm attention on the rest of the men. D'Artagnan couldn't answer him because he never took his eyes off the leader, nor was he swayed by the snickering of the other men in front of them.

"Your horses," the man replied, in an easy-going tone. "Your money, your swords, and your clothes."

D'Artagnan scoffed. "You would have us walk to Blois in our undergarments?"

The man shook his head in seriousness. "Oh no, we would have you walk naked. We wouldn't do you and your servant a disservice by doing only half the job."

"That's completely ridiculous."

"Those are our laws."

"Then I have misspoken. Your _laws and fees_ are ridiculous. And exorbitant."

"Our laws are laws. And our fees are still fees, sir. Laws must be obeyed and fees must be paid, else taken by _force_."

More men from the tree line came out and aimed second-hand pistols and muskets at them. That made the group of their aggressors at least twenty strong, or how it may have appeared to any of his skittish recruits in Paris. D'Artagnan hiked his grip on the reins a bit higher with one hand and slipped his other one into the small bag by his leg where his pistol was stashed, already loaded. Phaeton snorted in warning and dug his hooves into the ground, smelling the anticipation in the air just like his master did. One way or another, this was not going to end well for one side. "Force, you say?"

"How else would one run his country," the leader jeered. "You and your servant are lucky we can accept such worn clothes, dull swords, light change purses, and shoddy beasts-"

D'Artagnan aimed and shot the leader in the shoulder. The unfortunate man shouted and fell to the ground, groaning and writhing in pain. The rest of the men looked down at him in shock. No one moved or said a thing. When they looked back up at D'Artagnan he had another loaded pistol in hand, tossed to him by Planchet who was reloading the still smoking weapon he previously used. "Would anyone else care to add anything to that list?"

"You idiots," the leader screamed, bloody and in a rage. "Shoot them! Shoot them both!"

A second later the men regrouped and charged D'Artagnan and Planchet both. Phaeton didn't even need a kick in his side to charge forward. Most of the men scattered back into the trees and across the fields, but some brave and stupid souls stayed by their leader's side. It was a show of D'Artagnan's faith in Planchet that he didn't turn back to see if he needed help. Instead, he turned his attention to the main chess piece. When Phaeton turned about and charged back into the fray, D'Artagnan leapt from his horse and barreled into a group of three bandits reloading their muskets. Two of them were knocked unconscious, leaving D'Artagnan to dispatch the third.

Phaeton reared and kicked out against anyone who got too close to him and Planchet's mare. Planchet brawled with a couple of men not too far away, resorting to swinging a fallen musket into heads and unprotected shins. D'Artagnan drew his sword, having eyes only for the leader who had gotten back to his feet and drawn his own shoddy-looking sword. It was a simple weapon, but a sturdy one that did not threaten to break under any duress.

As he and the nameless leader danced back and forth, D'Artagnan staggered at points, exhaustion blaring a loud warning to every single bone in his aching body. He was only lucky to avoid serious injury due to the fact that the leader was a complete amateur with a sword in his hand. D'Artagnan would have spared the man his life and settled for humiliating him by knocking the weapon out of his hand and forcing him to admit defeat, but when he did just that the man kicked D'Artagnan's blade to the side (though the latter knew better than to let it fly out of his hand) and pulled out a dagger, swiping it deep and wide in arcs aimed at nothing short of a disabling and disemboweling fate. Luck saved D'Artagnan again by what must have been an inch's worth of air, and somehow he knew he wouldn't be granted another mercy such as that.

All gloves were then off.

This man would not back down because of his own pride and greed. This man was not afraid to play dirty. This man had killed before, how many was uncertain, but enough. And his limbs were starting to visibly shake from the exertion of what his sword master back in Paris would only have scoffed at and barely called a proper duel. He needed sleep. He needed food and rest. And he needed to not waste his time on scum like this man. Part of him hated to do it, but the other half had made a convincing argument. A firm decision in his mind, D'Artagnan used the hilt of his sword and gave the man a good knock under the chin and dealt the killing blow by running him through.

He had only just taken a breath after dealing the fatal blow when he felt another rogue surprise him from behind, pinning D'Artagnan's free arm behind him and pressing a sharp knife to his throat with every intention of slicing it open. He barely had the time to struggle against the unforeseen surprise and in those precious lost seconds he feared he would have been a dead man.

But not one second later the man at his back and the knife at his throat were gone. D'Artagnan staggered to the side after a firm shove into his back, but managed to whip around and regain some of his bearings. Half the company that ambushed them lay dead or dying. The rest had fled. Planchet sported a few bruises and superficial cuts, but otherwise appeared unharmed as he picked himself up from the ground with the aide of a battered musket. And then there was the one man D'Artagnan hadn't expected to see, the same one who saved his life and rolled the dead rogue who tried to kill his dear friend off of his person with a look of disgust.

"Athos," D'Artagnan gasped, falling to his knees in the dusty road with a hand over the stinging cut on his throat. He landed hard on his knees, and the jolt sent sharp pains up and down his lower spine. If it hadn't been for Athos' quick reflexes D'Artagnan would likely have fallen completely forward and blacked out in an undignified heap.

But there was one thing that kept him awake and his senses sharp. Those arms he so often dreamed about were around him again. And those warm strong beautiful hands were looking for obvious injuries that weren't there. D'Artagnan would have smiled if he could catch his breath first…perhaps after the ground decided to stop moving…and then if the stars on the edge of his vision would stop swirling. Yes, once those abated he would be perfectly fine.

When Athos lingered too long on the small cut on D'Artagnan's neck, the younger of the two grasped his friend's hand to divert his hard-set attention. "It's only shallow," D'Artagnan gasped.

"Too close for my liking," Athos said. "Are you injured elsewhere?"

D'Artagnan tried to sit up, but his other arm gave out from under him. "No, just…my pride."

But Athos wasn't set aside so easily from D'Artagnan's condition. The tone of his voice, among other things, was evidence enough. "Well, if you're not injured then you look ill. Would you care to explain or do I have to ask Planchet?"

Planchet intercepted the question with ease and frankness as he tended to their horses. "My master has worn himself ragged these past months, Monsieur Athos."

Athos turned back to D'Artagnan with a promising and threatening look. "Oh he has, has he?"

"Traitor," D'Artagnan hissed at Planchet.

The servant, to his credit, didn't cower. He calmly took his place by his master's side and helped Athos get D'Artagnan to his feet and steered them over to the nervous horses. "If you say so, master. But it is only because you are too kind to me."

D'Artagnan scoffed. "So this is my fault then, is that what you are saying?"

"I would say there lies much blame on your condition in this," Athos said. "Did my visit to Paris mean nothing to you?"

D'Artagnan winced and looked away, knowing he had nothing to say in his defense. "Your visit did not mean so little, no-"

"Then why do I find you here exhausted on top of injury?"

"Old habits are hard to break. I apologize. Might I now be left in peace to gather what's left of my dignity?"

Athos sighed. "Can you ride?"

D'Artagnan pushed away from Athos. "Of course I can ride-"

The moment Athos let go of him D'Artagnan took a step forward to prove his point, but he staggered like a drunk man and nearly fell back to the ground. Athos and Planchet both took hold of him again, but not before D'Artagnan hissed, cringed, and fell towards Athos for support. "What's wrong?"

"Later," D'Artagnan whispered.

Athos frowned and didn't look the least bit happy with that response but passed over it as D'Artagnan requested, likely only out of respect for their friendship. "In this condition you'll fall off your saddle before we make a mile. It's not that much farther but you're riding with me-and _don't _argue."

Once Athos' attention was elsewhere, D'Artagnan gave into the childish urge to roll his eyes. But in the end he could hardly justify it and no longer deny the fact that he was in pain, and also in serious need of rest. The very idea of getting back on a horse again made him hesitate once Planchet brought their horses over to them. Planchet had already mounted his mare and taken hold of Phaeton's reins. Phaeton pulled forward despite the servant's efforts and nudged his human affectionately. D'Artagnan reached up and stroked the animal, offering what reassurance a human could. The intelligence and empathy of animals, horses in particular, had fascinated him as a boy and still did.

"I'll be all right, boy," D'Artagnan whispered to him.

Phaeton nickered and nudged him in the cheek one final time before he allowed Planchet to pull him away.

God almighty, even his horse was worried about him.

D'Artagnan turned back to Athos and his horse, took a breath, and looked his friend dead in the eye as he spoke. "You'll have to help me."

Wordlessly Athos did just that, noting the seriousness behind the request and the request itself, which couldn't be helped because for D'Artagnan it was either flail, fall, and cause further injury to himself or rise above his own pride and ask for aide. D'Artagnan felt his face burn in embarrassment at needing just the slightest help getting his foot into the stirrup, but he gritted his teeth and braced himself for the pain that was sure to increase. But he hadn't judged by how much it would truly hurt.

Pulling himself up onto the saddle was bearable, until he swung his leg over and had to sit down. He couldn't help but let out an agonized moan at the horrible stretching sensation between his legs. Nothing felt torn, but he sensed he was on the very edge of it happening. Such a sudden and harsh pain would have undone any man twice his size, but he kept his jaw firmly shut and tried to suppress the urge to let out another one, which wasn't an easy feat. Gripping the pommel of the saddle in both hands might have only helped to put his mind at ease rather than diminish the unmentionable pain itself, but the slight pain in his tightly wound hand, turning both of them a ghastly white like his face, helped to take some of the edge off.

But only some, and not enough.

Athos, in the mean time, hadn't moved an inch from D'Artagnan's side. He also hadn't taken his hand away from the small of the young man's back. He spared his other one to calm his own horse, who had begun to snort and move restlessly after smelling the fear and alarm in the air, but not for long. Once his own horse calmed down he covered the wrist of that tense white hand with his own and gripped it hard. "D'Artagnan? What is it? Damn it, speak boy!"

D'Artagnan swayed in the saddle, more than a little annoyed to see his vision still tilting and threatening him with an imminent faint. But, as he had done on the battlefield numerous times, he tried to lock it all away and convince himself that pain was only a trick of the mind. He'd seen men, some of his own, with ghastly injuries get up and walk with no pain at all to complain of, so who was he to not do just that? It was only a few miles more. "I'm fi-"

"Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence and tell me you're fine when it is stupidly obvious you are _not!_"

Ah, yes. But then there was Athos' temper to contend with. D'Artagnan would have answered it, but those two syllables that came from his mouth spent much of his control already. So it was Planchet who was to bear the brunt of Athos' anger instead. "What do you know about this," Athos demanded, pointing a deadly finger at the servant.

D'Artagnan didn't doubt Planchet would answer, and had to speak over him to prevent him from spilling the truth of the matter on his master's behalf. It wasn't a conversation meant for open air, nor was it a subject D'Artagnan was ready to divulge just yet. He needed more time to collect his thoughts and to find the right words. And he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he was also afraid of the consequences when he finally did come clean and tell Athos the truth. He wouldn't delay it longer than necessary, but now was simply not the time nor the place.

"Athos," D'Artagnan groaned. "Enough, please. The longer I'm up here the faster I'll fade."

Athos grasped D'Artagnan's hand again. "I'll only leave this matter alone for now if you tell me that whatever this is is not life-threatening-and I swear to you before God and this earth that if you lie to me and tell me it is not when it is-"

"It's not. I promise you. Please?"

Athos didn't look the least bit convinced, but either way he pulled himself up behind D'Artagnan, pulled the younger man firmly against him, and started them off at a slow pace toward his estate. The stony silence lasted for a mile, and then Athos leaned forward and whispered in D'Artagnan's ear. "Would side-saddle be better for your back?"

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and reluctantly changed positions. It had been on his mind since sitting in the saddle, and even though it didn't relieve much of the pain and tension throughout, it took a bit of the edge off. "I must have angered God greatly in a previous life," he joked.

"Why is that?"

"Man and nature have declared war on my pride today. I can't imagine there's much left to lay me completely bare."

"I wouldn't speak so yet. The day's not done. And don't think you've heard the last of this matter, D'Artagnan."

"You'll get your answers…I swear it."

"But not before you've had some supper and rest," Athos relented. "Take some rest now if you can. I have you."

D'Artagnan wanted to argue, but he was well past the point of putting up a formidable front. Athos had his arms around him and the feeling of being back to chest was not just comforting but lulling. Before he knew it his eyes were closed and he was starting to feel the strong tug of sleep. But he never knew true rest. The pain was just too much to ignore. Perhaps it was the delirium that inevitably accompanies such large amounts of agony, but it became a live thing that grasped something deep in his chest and squeezed it in an unrelenting vice.

He was in the arms of the friend who he'd do anything in the world for. He was being held by a friend who would do anything for him in return. If he could have no other comfort in the world, then D'Artagnan decided somewhere in those dark waves of pain that he could satisfy himself with this. He pined after those letters Athos sent to him, most of the time unknowing of what it was that he truly wanted from his dear friend. He spent hours reading them and rereading them, imagining Athos' voice speaking them to him and tempting him into an ever-evasive peaceful sleep.

And…D'Artagnan had, somewhat selfishly, imagined that it was Athos' touch he was feeling and his lips he was tasting last night.

_Fingertips traced his cheekbones so faintly he almost missed the sensation. He turned toward the touch in his dazed state and sighed. Traces of a smile lightened his own face, and for a moment the sense of peace was so overwhelming that he thought he was dreaming. And if he was dreaming-_

"_Who is he?"_

_D'Artagnan dragged his exhausted eyelids open and the memory of where he was and who he was with came back to him. The satisfaction of what could only have been minutes prior, though perhaps it had been a couple of hours due to the now cool sheets, still held his body, and though he felt the twinge of disappointment that he wasn't lying next to who he really desired, he was not altogether unhappy. His lover was awake, looking at him and searching for an answer. All he could return in reply was a groggy and soft-spoken, "Who?"_

"_The man you are thinking of."_

_D'Artagnan didn't say anything. What could he say? Was there a truthful answer that wouldn't hurt? Was there a lie that wouldn't do anymore harm than his silence that was already growing too long? He rested his hand against his lover's face, touching and then generously massaging the small hollow spot between the corner of his jaw and neck, the place that he learned made the man shiver and sigh in need. It was a pitiful form of an apology, but D'Artagnan was at a loss for how to be honest (they had agreed upon nothing less, but accepted that there were secrets to be kept about them and between them) and…what, kind? Considerate? Thankful? _

_He sighed again, this time in regret because it seemed that no matter how, or how much he tried, he could not hide the truth or spare his lover the pain of it. _

_His lover smiled regardless and placed a soft kiss on his lips. There was no judgment, no sadness, no anger. Not even the slightest hint of bitterness. "I envy him," he whispered in D'Artagnan's ear._

He denied the truth of the matter for so long that now, faced with the blatant proof of his skin prickling and aching for more personal care and knowledge, his shame became something tangible. In all reason he had no right to even fuel those long-drawn fantasies he comforted himself with, not after what he had done in the name of them. If nothing else, he at the very least owed Athos the truth of his nature. D'Artagnan had tried rehearsing the possible conversation in his head many times before, but never settled on what words to use, how to possibly bring it up, and how to execute it. Now, it seemed, he would have to find those answers very soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The next coherent thing D'Artagnan became aware of, unsurprisingly, was the pain, and the sound of a bridge underneath them. "Almost there," Athos whispered to him.

He opened his eyes and spied the main house of Athos' estate in the distance through the trees. He never thought he'd feel so relieved to see that stone façade. Just as they reached the part of the road that met the front steps, a light rain began and was starting to block out the last of the evening sunlight. They didn't continue on to the stables further down the road. Instead Athos waved Grimaud over from the entrance to the stables and the servant obediently came at a run.

Athos dismounted and D'Artagnan moved to try the same himself, bracing a hand on Athos' shoulder but found no strength in any of his limbs. As it turned out he had to slide out of the saddle and let Athos catch him and lower him to the ground. It hurt, but not as much as climbing into the saddle had. Besides that point, D'Artagnan was beyond caring about being embarrassed or being a burden. Humility saved men from dying needless deaths on the battlefield, and that lesson was the first he gave to every recruit assigned under his authority because he had learned from direct experience that pride and honor could very easily turn on a man, on any soldier regardless of rank, and render him completely and unnecessarily vulnerable and helpless.

Athos gave the task of putting the horses in for the night to Planchet while directing Grimaud to go into the house and draw a bath. Before his silent servant left, Athos whispered something to him but it was lost to D'Artagnan because of the roaring in his ears. Sounds faded away and his vision blurred. All he had at his disposal to tell what was happening was Athos helping him into the house by touch and guidance. They went up a set of stairs one step at a time at an agonizingly slow pace, for that was all D'Artagnan could handle while on his own two feet. Once they reached the top, ages later, they walked down a long hallway or corridor with creaky floorboards covered by soft carpeted rugs. D'Artagnan hoped in passing thought that his boots wouldn't dirty them, but that seemed to be the last thing on Athos' mind as he pressed them on.

"Just a little farther," the man whispered into his ear.

D'Artagnan stumbled and Athos stopped them more than a few times so he could regain his balance and keep from passing out cold on the spot. But Athos spoke the truth, because it was a matter of seconds before D'Artagnan knew they had reached their destination. He felt the humid air of a bath on the cool skin of his face, and though the sensation made him dizzy the relief that flooded into his limbs gave him a brief spell of strength enough to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. He was momentarily confused at how short a time it must have taken the servant to prepare it, but then chalked it up to Grimaud having prepared it prior to his master's return. The man had always seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of things, not just about his master but about his master's friends, about day to day occurrences, changes in plans, and so forth.

Or perhaps they really had taken that long getting up one flight of stairs…the very thought made D'Artagnan color in embarrassment. Athos still held him upright and dismissed Grimaud to help Planchet in the stables. Wordlessly, Athos shed his own coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began the task of undressing D'Artagnan. It was a testament to how much pain the younger man was in that he gave no protest or argument on his own behalf. Beyond that, the room still stubbornly continued to spin and tilt in front of him, so rather than prolong the inevitable, D'Artagnan decided to simply give in. And thankfully, Athos didn't speak a word on the matter.

D'Artagnan's weapons were laid aside first, then his coat, waistcoat, boots and stockings, his shirt, and lastly his breeches and undergarments. D'Artagnan wanted to protest the latter but the pain reared its ugly head again when he did nothing more than shift his weight between his feet. He swayed dangerously to the side and the blood rushed in his ears again as his vision went gray, but Athos didn't let go and put his head under D'Artagnan's arm.

"Hold on to me," he said, before sweeping D'Artagnan's legs up and supporting him with ease.

"Sorry," D'Artagnan mumbled, grasping the back of Athos' shirt in a weak grip. He was airborne for only a few seconds before Athos lowered him into the warm water of the wooden tub. It felt like heaven and though sitting down in it brought a sorry throbbing ache it wasn't as bad as sitting in that God forsaken saddle. D'Artagnan wondered how long it would be before he could ride again as he leaned back against the wall of the tub and tried to relax, finding it easier than he thought it would be.

While he did that, Athos soaked a washcloth and began washing the dirt and afternoon sweat from his friend. "If I recall correctly, you've done the very same for me more than a few times, so I would ask you to cease that berating I know is going on in that thick head of yours. I am merely returning the favor."

"I…I had help then…"

"Yes, you did. Try to relax."

D'Artagnan wanted to laugh. Try? He couldn't do much of anything let alone try to relax when your body was screaming for it and the person you've spent months, if not years, pining after was supporting you, undressing you, _and_ bathing you. The only way out of giving himself away was to ignore it and focus on something else. So he opened his eyes and spotted a jar of what looked like large chunks of salt on a table across the room.

D'Artagnan frowned. "I've seen those before…but I can't remember what…they are."

Athos looked over at the table and then went back to re-soaping the washcloth. "Epsom salts. My cousin, Louisette, is a baroness of northern Spain and her husband is an ambassador and trader of worldly goods. She has sworn by their medicinal properties and insists upon sending me a jar for every shipment her husband brings back from his exploits. I give most of them away to the apothecaries and they have also sworn by their worth."

"And what is your opinion of them, Athos?"

"We'll soon find out," he said straight-faced, though a twinkle in his eye gave him away.

D'Artagnan smiled. "I should have guessed."

"You said you've seen them before?"

"In Paris, I think. But not in the markets. If I remember it correctly…one of the Queen's ladies was carrying a jar of it as I was leaving the palace."

Athos nodded. "A gift, perhaps. Alfonso is known for his needless extravagance."

"Needless?"

The older man frowned. "The man has more land than he needs, more servants than the help he requires, vaults of riches he's inherited from his parents, the thanks of kings, counts, and lords of lands he will only see once in his lifetime. He is not a selfish man, but the cost of the wealth that passes through his hands never leaves his mind. And his mind is an endless ledger of accumulating numbers. My cousin has done much to temper him over the years, but I fear her efforts have not done enough. True charity doesn't expect anything in return, and nor should it shine in the splendor of generosity itself."

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement and furrowed his brows in thought. "Now that you mention it…I do remember seeing a rather large and bright sparkling bow attached to that poor jar."

Athos scoffed. "Then it was certainly from Alfonso."

Towards the end of the bath D'Artagnan could feel the tension pouring out of his muscles. He was by no means reinvigorated and was still quite weak, but his vision was clearer and the blood no longer rushed in his ears. Athos helped him out of the tub, not without a bit of hesitation on D'Artagnan's part and also with a few necessary pauses so the room would stop spinning. By that time Planchet and Grimaud had returned, brought up a light supper to D'Artagnan's room, and helped the young man into bed. Athos didn't return to his room to change. Instead, he pulled a chair up to D'Artagnan's bedside and dined with him while Grimaud and Planchet saw to dumping the bathwater.

D'Artagnan sighed when they had finished eating and leaned back against the pillows and headboard of the bed. "I'm sorry, Athos. I didn't mean to be such a burden-"

Athos gave him a sharp look. "You're not. This is no different from the old days so don't make it out to be."

"Perhaps I'm none the wiser but I am older, my friend." _And I shouldn't be imposing on you like this._

But Athos' eyes had gone somewhere else. "Regrettably," he softly replied. "Though knowledge comes with age it cannot give you protection from everything."

D'Artagnan waited until Athos was done, and even then he couldn't open his mouth to say the words that he needed to say. They escaped him and left inadequate replacements to do the job. "I've been stupid…and I've acted poorly."

"So Planchet has told me. But I shall trust you to tell me the full story in time. Presently, you are in need of rest. If you need anything, I'm across the hall from you. And I'm a light sleeper." _So don't you dare move from that bed._

D'Artagnan gave him a small smile in thanks. "Consider me properly warned, then."

Athos rose and replaced the chair to the desk against the wall. "Don't worry about the sun tomorrow. Sleep as much as you need. I'll send Planchet in for the dishes."

"Thank you, Athos," D'Artagnan said, sliding further down into the soft comforting sheets and pillows. "Good night."

"Good night, my friend," Athos said, on his way out.

When he was gone D'Artagnan sighed and turned his face into the pillows, surprised and happy to find that the smell of the sheets held a hint of the very same his beloved friend carried. But the last thing he needed now was to be reminded of that treacherous secret of his, much less what dreams could bring. For a moment he wasn't sure which was worse, the fact that he was a sodomite to the world or that he harbored forbidden feelings to a long-time friend and brother-in-arms. One secret needed to be told, and the other needed to disappear. Either way, it appeared as if he was about to lose a friend. And the pain in his chest felt worse than the physical agony he had so far suffered.

Planchet entered quietly when D'Artagnan was on the edge of sleep. "Has he threatened torture for information from you yet," D'Artagnan asked in a drone.

Planchet answered as he dutifully gathered the plates and dinnerware from their earlier meal. "No, master."

"Mmm. Mind you don't put it past him between now and tomorrow."

"I shall remain vigilant. Do you need anything?"

D'Artagnan declined. But before the servant could leave the room, D'Artagnan called him back. "Thank you. If you weren't happy in your current occupation you know I'd offer you a place in the guards. You've certainly got the tenacity for it having dealt with me for so long."

Planchet ducked his head. "This I know, master. Perhaps one day, but not now while I can still be of some use to you."

"Some," D'Artagnan scoffed. "Other men would charge you with doing too much! I have no proof of your doings but don't get used to taking such liberties when my attention is elsewhere."

Planchet smirked. "I wouldn't dream of it, master."

When the servant left, somehow D'Artagnan got the feeling he'd been expecting this sort of rebuke for a while. And he had only spoken to Monsieur de Treville earlier this morning. What else could he possibly have done…And then, like a bolt of lightning he understood. He sat bolt upright, but only made it a foot off the bed before he gasped in pain and fell right back down.

"Blasted man," he growled.

That night, D'Artagnan was lulled to sleep with plotting a revenge fit for two instead of one.

* * *

"_Charles?"_

_He looked over to his father from the window. The older man sat comfortably in the chair with his feet propped up and a thin blanket laid over him from his mother. _

"_Did I wake you," he asked as he knelt next to his father._

_His father shook his head, then he nodded toward the window his son had vacated. "Not a pretty sight, is it?"_

"_We need rain in Paris too."_

_His father smiled and wove his fingers affectionately in his son's hair. "Well, until then we'll just have to make do with what we have and save what we can-"_

"_Father…"_

_His father sighed and shook his head. "I hear it from your mother every day. Do me one mercy Charles and don't berate an old man about his age."_

"_You know it's only because she worries," he whispered, taking his father's hand into his own. "And when she worries-"_

"_You worry, I know. But you have more important things to worry about-"_

"_Don't say that. This _is_ more important and you will always be more important to me than anyone else."_

_Bertrand was silent for a few moments, and when he finally did speak it was with a worrying tone of his own. "Charles…are you happy?"_

_He opened his mouth to reply, but surprise stole the words away. Why was his father asking him about his happiness? Hadn't he sent countless letters over the past year about his exploits, his friends, and his achievements? Hadn't he sat by this fireplace many nights when he could afford a visit home and recount his adventures with both his parents? Hadn't they enjoyed those nights? Had he let something else show in its place? Had he given himself away? Did his father know? He couldn't possibly know. But if he did… "Happy," D'Artagnan asked, after swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Father."_

"_Something tells me you do…"_

_Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, but D'Artagnan forced them back. "I am only unhappy when I worry about you or Mother."_

_His father leaned forward and took his son's other hand that was gripping the arm of the chair. "Charles…tell me the truth."_

D'Artagnan woke to a face full of soft pillows and clean sheets. He woke to comfort. There was warmth and sunshine on his face from a high window above the bed. Mid-morning or perhaps a little later. He sighed and laid his head back on the sinfully plush pillows. His heart still ached from the fond memory because it felt so real. His father's hand had been there. He had felt it as clear as day. Almost as if…

But that was wishful thinking. He eased himself up in bed and winced at the ache he still felt in his backside. But compared to yesterday he felt much better. For the most part, he could even stand up and walk around the room on his own without much pain. He dressed slowly and even took care when he sat down on the bed to pull on his shoes. It still caused him a considerable amount of pain, just sitting down on the soft mattress, but if he had to lie in this bed all day long his back would make him pay for it later. He rationalized it as the lesser of two evils in his mind as he pulled on a soft pair of shoes and went in search of some food and company.

He ran into Planchet on his way downstairs and immediately the servant ushered him to the table and put some food in front of him. He asked where Athos was and learned he was out in the stables having already eaten and immersed himself in some kind of work. D'Artagnan's curiosity was peaked, for more than a few times he had wondered how Athos chose to spend his retirement. He even allowed himself to fantasize about the day of his own retirement, should he be lucky enough to see it. But he could never get past the present want for more adventure and action, or perhaps it was only the need to actively be doing some kind of physical work. Truth be told, he hated the deskwork that came with his present position back in Paris. Bookkeeping and letters were not his forte. They never were, and in the past he had left those matters to men like Aramis who took pleasure in such things.

When he was finished with his breakfast, which could almost have been considered a midday meal, he rose and headed towards the door.

"Master," Planchet asked, uneasy and with that worrying look in his eye yet again. "Shouldn't you be-"

"I'm only going in search of Athos. My sword is upstairs if you need further proof that I won't get into any trouble without you."

The servant, as expected, did not look the least bit happy but went about his duties without another word.

Though it was the beginning of what was sure to be a long hot summer, D'Artagnan pulled on a soft and unadorned jacket over his thin white shirt. The coolness of the morning still lingered and gave him a chill. As he looked at himself in a framed looking glass by the door he noticed for the first time how thin he really looked. No wonder everyone was worried about him, he thought. He couldn't remember looking this bad since that first year in Paris when he caught that bad fever that swept through the streets. Many died and it was only toward the end of the epidemic that people started migrating toward the countryside for fresher air.

It had certainly worked for him. Looking back on it he thought perhaps part of what contributed to his declining health back then was homesickness. The simple sight of trees, for instance, did much to make him breathe easier in those days. It still did. He had never truly taken to the hurried life of the city and the politics that went with it. The country was where he was raised and where he felt most like himself. Oftentimes he wished there could have been some kind of happy medium between the two that he could have chosen for himself. But if he had taken that route, he never would have met Athos, Porthos or Aramis.

He glanced up at the house as he made his way down the path and, for the first time since visiting this place, he realized that this was not just a house but something worthy of being called a chateau for its age and size. There were larger estates in this part of the country for certain, some that even trounced the simple stonework of Athos' home with more elaborate rooftops, statues and windows, courtyards and latticework inspired by the grander architecture in Paris. Athos' house was different. There was an air about it that almost made him bow out of respect for the weathering it endured over the centuries that he was sure it must have stood here.

The real question was, how many centuries had it seen?

He continued on, pondering about it in the back of his mind even as he peered into the stables from the large entrance. Up close it was an imposing structure capable of housing twenty horses comfortably. D'Artagnan remembered from the last time he had been here that it had been half in disarray and unused. Now, it appeared spotless and in order wherever he looked. Athos had complained about having too much space in the past and D'Artagnan wondered if seeing this anomaly before his eyes was any warning to what further discoveries he would find. Presently, however all he saw were their horses munching on oats in their stalls.

"Athos," D'Artagnan called.

Something dropped to the floor above him in the loft. He looked up and spied Athos poking his head over the railing.

"One moment," he called back down.

Before D'Artagnan could apologize Athos was gone. D'Artagnan leaned against the doorway and listened to Athos rummaging around with things above. Then, seconds later he heard him coming down the stairs to his left. As he came down D'Artagnan noticed a few things. For one, Athos was a little red in the face and sweaty as if he'd been working on something. Second, he was only in a thin and loose white shirt that stuck to his body in, ironically, all the right places. Thirdly, there was a bit of sawdust or what looked like small bits of wood chippings stuck in his hair. On his way down Athos shoved his arms through the armholes of his vest but didn't button it for the heat.

D'Artagnan noticed that he was staring in a rather unbecoming manner, and had to clear his throat before he could even attempt speech. "I'm sorry. Did I interrupt you?"

If Athos was bothered by D'Artagnan's staring he didn't show it. "Not I. You and your rest, however, yes."

D'Artagnan frowned. "I'm all right-"

Athos gave him a look.

"Better than yesterday?"

Athos crossed his arms and pursed his lips.

D'Artagnan crossed his own arms and tried not to wince when he readjusted his weight. "Well, I am standing on my own two feet."

"You are _leaning_ against the doorway," Athos drawled.

"I made it out here on my own," he challenged.

"It is not that far a walk from the main house. Nevertheless, you seem much improved."

D'Artagnan bit his lip and played with a loose thread on the coat. "Thanks to you."

Athos uncrossed his arms and sighed. "Are you still in pain?"

"Not much."

"How much is not much?"

"It is not completely gone," D'Artagnan admitted. "And I don't expect it to be for some days yet, but it is tolerable."

"For now, you mean."

It was D'Artagnan's turn to sigh. "Yes, for now. Things change as they always do. But that doesn't mean I can't take advantage of it while I can," he finished with a teasing smile.

Athos frowned. "And if I would rather you didn't?"

"Well…then I would have to ask you what you'd suggest for bedside entertainment?" As the words came out of his mouth he wanted to kick himself, but it seemed so damned easy, as if the words themselves were like silk or some sweet cider on a cool day. He didn't dare look up at Athos for a reaction, but bolstered on as if he'd meant it in the completely innocent way he should have said it. "I will be indebted to Planchet for the rest of my life but if I were honest I'd admit that I have sorely missed your company since our brief reunion yesterday."

"I'm certain we can find a few things to talk about to pass the time," Athos replied, ushering them both out of the stables and back towards the house.

And damn it all, that hand on his lower back again was doing far too much good. He grasped for words, any words that could keep them both on neutral territory. "I meant to ask you something, Athos-how old is this place?"

Athos almost looked a bit weary of giving an answer, as if he'd been asked that same question many times before or schooled on it against his will. D'Artagnan thought it might have been the latter. "Very. The oldest foundations probably saw the rise and fall of Charlemagne over eight hundred years ago."

D'Artagnan stared at him in disbelief. "But…the house can't be that old!"

"By the time I'm through with its history you won't doubt it. But first I'll need some wine and you'll need a comfortable bed-"

D'Artagnan stopped them both under the shade of an overhanging tree with a quick hand on his friend's arm. "Chair, Athos-please, I am hardly recovered but I would much rather see what it is we are talking about rather than leave it to the mercy of my feeble imagination."

Athos stuck the tip of his foot in the dirt and paused in consideration. "While I don't agree with you why don't we compromise for the library upstairs? It's in the oldest part of the building and the furniture is close to the softness that should be agreeable to your needs."

"That sounds perfect," he said with a grateful smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

D'Artagnan needed no aide back into the house, but the last half of the staircase nearly did him in. Athos didn't say a word but offered his hand and his shoulder when they were needed. The library itself was a large room, and also a bright one. Though the wood paneling normally would have darkened the rest of the room, the tall windows, the absence of curtains, and the fact that it was facing the east told him all he needed to know about what mornings were like in this room. The nights told a different story, with used candelabras and oil lamps mounted on the walls, three relatively small chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, and even the iron-cast rack that held a large supply of wood for the large fireplace.

A worn desk with piles of ledgers, inkwells, quills, and paper at the ready for letters and personal notes sat directly across from the doorway. Athos left D'Artagnan next to a chair in front of the desk to clear off the more comfortable seats by the fireplace from more books than Aramis would probably know what to do with. The entire room seemed encased by shelves of them. He wondered if perhaps Athos was the confidant Aramis referred to in his letters about having the wealth of necessary materials he needed for his thesis. In fact, after one quick glance around the somewhat musty but well-kept old room, he would be shocked if Athos hadn't lent Aramis some of the old vellum copies he spied lying next to what looked like an old family bible.

While he wandered around the room, skimming his eyes over old tomes and portraits of nobles, Grimaud came in silent as a mouse, poured the wine, and left before D'Artagnan had a chance to thank him. All it took was a wince, when he turned to join Athos, to be steered directly to an oversized chair with overstuffed pillows and cushions. As D'Artagnan sank down into it he couldn't help but sigh in relief.

"Comfortable," Athos asked with a hint of a smile as he handed over D'Artagnan's glass of wine.

"Sinfully so," D'Artagnan conceded. "I didn't think you were serious about the furniture."

"It's not in the modern style of Paris, but it's practical enough for me after all these years."

D'Artagnan chuckled. "Don't tell me this enormous chair is over eight hundred years old."

Athos was unfazed as he sipped his own wine and took the other seat next to D'Artagnan's. "It's less than a hundred. But it was hand-made by my mother's father so that's another reason I am loathe to get rid of it."

"Your family, they were carpenters?"

"My mother's family. They did not come from any noble blood but their wit and judgment on their trade served them well. They were hard workers, they knew when to invest and when to save, and over generations the commoners of this land viewed them as their own kind of nobility. My grandfather saw no distinction between a lord and a poor man if they had the same value of honor and character. I can only guess that it was my mother's fair and gentle nature that attracted the likes of my father."

D'Artagnan frowned at the darker tone in Athos' voice. "Why do you say that?"

"My father's family came from too much wealth to know anything about honest work. To him and my aunts and uncles it was all about what you see around you in this room. Books, treasures-some of them lost to time-histories, ancestral ties to lords, barons, kings, and saints. I could tell you who my twenty-times great grandfather was, who he married, who he knew, how he acquired his land and wealth, how it passed down to me through disownments, infirmities, unsuccessful war ventures, and political alliances." Athos sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he spoke more calmly. "I am thankful for my education but for my part the better part of it was spent drilling needless aristocratic manners, gossip-mongering, and sycophantic behavior into a mind better used for simpler matters."

D'Artagnan gave Athos a gentle smile full of understanding. "Like being a musketeer?"

Athos hid his bitter smile behind the wine. "If I wasn't my father's only son perhaps he would have had some mercifully similar thoughts."

"Your mother's family, were they all carpenters and tradesmen?"

"Not all. Great deals of them were carpenters but there were a few blacksmiths, farmers, and a handful of vintners. This estate has seen its share of attempts at simpler trades, but the lords of this house never dirtied their hands in it. My family's name, I am ashamed to say, has endured at the expense of others for far too many years. Such extravagance no longer stands for me to show you proof. If you can imagine it, a grand family chapel used to stand between the main house and the stables, connecting all three structures.

"At one point in time this house was the jewel of Blois. Kings and Queens retreated here in secret during times of war and peace alike. That portrait you see next to the door is of my eight-times great grand-uncle Henri. It was commissioned by John the second for his bravery and loyalty. And that tapestry above the fireplace was a gift from Adelaide of Aquitaine, wife of Hugh Capet who was the founder of the Capetian dynasty of French kings, to my fifteen times great-grandmother, Eleanora."

"My God," D'Artagnan laughed. "I don't mean to sound ignorant, Athos, but I know very little of history beyond the last fifty years. And I'm afraid I don't know anything about who these people are or even when they lived."

Athos frowned and averted his eyes. "The product of my youth I'm afraid."

"When did Queen Adelaide live?"

"The latter half of the tenth century."

"_That_ tapestry is over six hundred years old?!"

Athos nodded.

D'Artagnan turned his head around and furrowed his brows as he spied the other one behind them. "What about the one behind the desk?"

"My family ancestry. That one is only five hundred or so."

D'Artagnan could only stare and gape with his slack-jawed mouth.

Through lunch and after it Athos continued his promised history lesson, and by the end of it D'Artagnan had no doubt whatsoever that Athos' original claims about the house were true. Though his mind wandered a few times he found his interest growing in all the lore Athos shared with him about the French nobility and royalty of the days their grandfathers never knew. They were far different times than the kind that they lived in today, and part of him couldn't help but be thankful in many ways how far France had come as a country. He knew for a fact that the present monarchy was far from stable, but compared to the bygone days of blatant and outright murder…well, maybe the enemies of their present king and queens had grown more civil and subtle.

After all, one need only look to the former Cardinal Richelieu for a prime example.

As the afternoon wore on, their conversation passed into a comfortable silence, one in which D'Artagnan accidentally fell asleep. When he woke hours later with a thin blanket draped over him he went to apologize but found Athos with his appreciative nose stuck deep in an old Latin-based tome that looked ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Athos didn't notice that D'Artagnan had woken so D'Artagnan took advantage of those few precious moments. He felt a bit guilty for it, but now at least he could stare until he was caught, not from the initial and painfully obvious outset. This morning had been a downright assault on his imagination and he was lucky he was still somewhat tired and in more physical pain than normal. Otherwise he shuddered to think of how he might have ruined things before he could have a chance to explain himself.

He sighed inside, wondering why his baser self saw fit to torture him relentlessly with something that he could never have. He promised himself he would try to forget, but here he was years later in the presence of the very person of his secret affections and he still felt those red hot desires just as keenly as when they first sparked to life. Was now the time to admit the truth? It seemed right. But something sharp and immense in his chest begged him not to, told him it was wrong, that he was being impatient, that he could wait a bit longer even though he'd waited too long already.

When the library began to grow dark, Grimaud and Planchet entered and lit the candles, the lamps, and the chandeliers with the aide of long lit poles. Athos took the liberty of starting a warm crackling fire himself. It had been a cooler day than what they both had originally anticipated, but it hadn't been altogether cold. With dinner they had a new wine, a red in an unmarked bottle that made D'Artagnan think it was from some local vineyard. The first thing D'Artagnan noticed was that it wasn't as dry as most of the wines Athos preferred. Upon further examination amidst the pleasant but subtle spices there was a faint trace of blueberries, raspberries, and…plums?

"What do you think of the wine?"

"It's excellent," D'Artagnan praised. "But I'm having trouble placing it. I don't believe it's anything I've tasted before. Is it new?"

"Fairly. It's a new blend. One vine has been growing in these lands for centuries and the other was an import from the south, from your home country."

"The Lledoner Pelut?"

Athos looked a bit surprised when he replied. "Yes. How did you know?"

D'Artagnan smiled a bit at the chance to add his own humble story to the pool of what Athos had told all morning. "My grandfather chose to live the rest of his life as a vintner after his long service to King Henry the third. He was my mother's father and she grew up tending to the Grolleau vines in the north. I had the chance to see the vineyard as a child before a great fire devoured it a few years later. It devastated my uncle's finances and he had no choice but to move his family south to our country. My father helped him start over and eventually my uncle started growing the Lledoner Pelut vine to blend with the Mourvèdre that the other locals tried to cultivate from Spain. The wine was never the same as the old vintage he had but he said he was content with it, though I suspect he still tries to find a way to make the old kind again."

Athos took another sip of it and set the glass, still half-full, aside. "Do you think this would have any trouble selling in Paris?"

"None whatsoever! It has a refinement worthy of His Majesty's court. God forbid they get word of it though."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the maker would work day and night just to satisfy the orders!"

Athos studied him and sat back in his chair when he saw that D'Artagnan was telling the honest truth, not a polite white lie. "You're serious."

"Quite. Do you know the maker, Athos?"

"…I do."

"I would very much like to meet this man and congratulate him before his means increase and his leisure time flies away. I knew a couple of vintners in the south who had little time for friends and even less for their own wives when they had no fear of starvation." D'Artagnan smiled in good nature. "I think he deserves a fair warning."

Athos drummed his hands on the arm of his chair. The hints of a smile dawned in the corners of his mouth, and if D'Artagnan looked closer there was the slightest tinge of pink to his cheeks as if- "He sits before you."

D'Artagnan nearly choked on the wine already in his mouth, and had to take an undignified moment to swallow the rest of it that didn't try to worm it's way into his lungs. "This is your wine," he exclaimed with a cough.

Athos chuckled. "It is."

"Then I am very sorry for you," D'Artagnan laughed. "You've done France far too much good for her own sake with this!"

"I'm sure those thieves on the road would have agreed with you."

"Was right in thinking you were acquainted with them before?"

"Just and too little. They've effectively scared nearly all travelers and traffic off the north road."

D'Artagnan frowned. "Why have we heard nothing of this in Paris?"

"That is partly my doing. When Louis asked me to resume my responsibilities as Count of Blois it wasn't all due to corrupt barons and greedy tax collectors. A small handful of unruly men grew to what we saw yesterday on the road. Most of them are orphans, boys with no direction, no education, or alternative means of survival. For months I've been pouring my finances into this wine for the sole promise of success. What I plan to do with that success is build and run a home that will house, feed, and educate the young children of this countryside. No matter what means they aspire, if they enter that house they will leave knowing they have the power to make it real."

"So they don't fall into the hands of men like the one I killed yesterday," D'Artagnan concluded.

"Precisely."

"It's an excellent idea, Athos. If there is anything I can do, any influence I have in my power to give when I return to Paris then I will do it. I'm sorry I have denied you your justice. It was not intentional I assure you. But that man…his kind begs steel to meet flesh."

"In truth you have done me a favor killing him," Athos said. "His band of rogues has been stealing from my shipments for weeks. It's enough of a trouble to keep the vintage in demand when you're competing with other more established vineyards. But to have complaints about carts half-full or empty upon arrival are too much to let pass. He's lucky you got to him first."

They fell into a familiar silence that in the past was nothing but comfortable. Now, it felt oppressive because an opportune moment presented itself yet again. D'Artagnan tried to distract himself with the wine, then the fire, then the large room itself if only to prolong the inevitable. No matter what he did his nerves grew, and it showed.

"D'Artagnan?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes, Athos?"

"I do not know if now is the time, but I am compelled to remind you of the answers you promised me yesterday."

He winced at the plain concern and bit the inside of his lip while he wondered why he ever thought this was a good idea. Yes, it was a matter of honor. Yes, it was a matter of honesty. But it was also a matter of friendship. And something like this, something entirely needless, could very well damage it beyond repair. It had always been a stark fear of his that this moment should come to pass, even more so under his own free will because he wasn't inebriated enough to justify the blame on the wine tomorrow morning when he could come to his senses.

But, if truth be told, keeping secrets from his friends had caused him more pain and suffering over the years than any physical injury he had to bear. And he was tired of it. He hated living a lie day to day, even though it was necessary for the sake of his own life and security. What he hated more than that was living a lie to those he loved and trusted. Keeping secrets from them, from Athos for example, felt like distrust, like a betrayal of all they'd gone through over the years. Athos deserved to know the truth, at the very least…even if this would be the last time they-

D'Artagnan swallowed the traces of wine left in his mouth and put the glass to the side to save his churning stomach. There wasn't any use in trying to talk himself out of it, because by now Athos knew something was wrong. And though the years had tempered them both, D'Artagnan knew from experience how stubborn the man could still be. After all, it had only been a year ago that Athos rode to Paris to confront him for not writing in months. Maybe D'Artagnan had done it on purpose, just to see if his friend would still follow through with his threats, but the open chastisement-though scathing-was welcome.

"I did promise them, didn't I," he asked, more as a self-push then a question of whether he had to go through with it.

"I would not ask them of you if I did not have concerns of my own for your welfare."

"You would be right in having them," D'Artagnan whispered. "I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you all these years, Athos…"

Athos put his glass to the side as well and leaned forward. "We all have our secrets. Pray tell, what makes yours so different from mine?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and tried to stop the trembling from affecting his voice. It wasn't easy. "Their nature…"

"You fear to disclose them to me?"

"Foolishly maybe. I can only pray they are foolish fears, but even then I do not know if I would be granted that luxury of prayer."

Athos got up from his seat and crossed to D'Artagnan, kneeling by his side and grabbing his hand that was grasping the chair arm too tightly. "What is it? I've never seen you tremble like this. What's wrong?"

A chill spread across his back and D'Artagnan had to close his eyes against a wave of dizziness. God, he was falling apart now? Never in the face of an enemy, not even death, but in front of Athos? Alone with a ten-year secret? It was completely absurd. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to throw something. Hell, he wouldn't have minded it if he shed a few tears. D'Artagnan sighed and leaned forward into his hands with elbows supported on his knees. He rubbed at his eyes and them folded his hands together in front of him, lost for how else to say it. He didn't want to, damn it all. He didn't want to lose what had kept him going all these years alone in Paris.

Athos sighed and put a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Out with it, boy! You know I was never one for words in times like this."

"Even if the moment I utter its name you would be under every obligation to…cast me out?"

"What," Athos exclaimed. "I would never! And you know I wouldn't, no matter what it was!"

D'Artagnan winced at the hurt and the anger behind those words but couldn't reply for the likelihood of causing his dear friend more pain. Athos, however, didn't stop with only words. He grabbed both of D'Artagnan's hands and yanked them down from where they had previously cradled his head.

"What poison has made you think this? _Who_ has made you think this?"

"You know I have not had the steel for another after Constance, and in truth I haven't. Not entirely. For a time I think I knew something of what you must have felt, being alone, feeling empty and listless like all the world's gone dark."

Athos paled. "I should have stayed in Paris. I have done you a terrible wrong-"

"No! Athos, your letters were a sweet comfort, not a bitter reminder of your absence. I've told you before that I understood why you left and I still do. I hold you, nor Aramis, nor Porthos _any_ ill will. Did you not believe me?"

"I once feared that you hid that pain from us, as you were and are prone to do when it came to others' needs, but if that was never its source then what was?"

"A mistake," D'Artagnan admitted. "I was careless."

Athos frowned. "A woman?"

"No, though that is not all that far from the truth. What I mean is that I have not been entirely without that kind of comfort, as of late."

"So it is a woman?"

"No! No, it…" he trailed off. Now it came to it. And the words felt like a lead weight in his mouth. "It is…her other half."

D'Artagnan sprang out of his seat, as best he could, and crossed to the opposite side of the room with words spilling forth like a broken dam. "I have abused your trust and our friendship, I know-And I will not ask anything more of you-I've done far too much to ask for forgiveness-I-I never meant to take such liberties but I thought it was something I could-something that could be ignored or prayed away but-"

"D'Artagnan," Athos tried to interrupt, in that same hurtful tone that D'Artagnan couldn't bear to hear.

"-It never went away-I never wanted to disappoint you or Aramis or Porthos or Monsieur de Treville or even the memory of my father-Believe me, that was the furthest thing from my mind, to dishonor any of you by asking for your confidence or advice because I didn't know what to do or how to make it go away, but-"

"D'Artagnan-"

"But I didn't want to make it go away…not-not when I knew acceptance and understanding from a complete stranger who had every right to report me or see me hanged or suffer a traitor's death for my sins. I face that every day and I know the dangers I carelessly put myself in and the last thing I would ever want is to endanger any of you along with me, needlessly-I won't! I absolutely refuse to do it-In my good conscience I cannot stay here-I shouldn't have even opened my mouth let alone come seeking-"

"D'Artagnan," Athos shouted as he grabbed him by the shoulders. "I know."

D'Artagnan paused and couldn't understand that what he heard wasn't a figment of his crazed imagination. "What…you know. What does…What do you mean you know?"

"I've known of your inclination since you first came to live with us in Paris," Athos said, gently.

Now D'Artagnan was truly confused. "I don't understand. I didn't even know until…you knew before I did? How?"

Athos gave his shoulders a firm but reassuring squeeze. "You see more than most men do in others. Most see flawless skin, others scorn weight, height, and hair color. And then there are others, fewer men in this world that have the ability to see the beauty beyond what these bodies of ours can offer. Oftentimes friends, acquaintances, brothers in arms, others you didn't know would capture your quiet affections. You grew silent and still. You kept a good distance in every way except with your eyes. You blushed in the dark when you thought no one was looking. Whenever a beautiful woman or a pretty girl passed your line of sight your gaze didn't waver and turn on them."

D'Artagnan blushed and looked down at his feet. It was a frustrating truth he had tried to ignore, and to hear that it had been so obvious felt like a nasty blow to the gut. He never wanted Athos to feel uncomfortable or as if he didn't matter because he did matter! Most of the time D'Artagnan had forced his eyes on someone else to take his attention _away_ from Athos, so he wouldn't be tempted into doing anything foolish like ruining a priceless friendship! The sheer possibility that he had inadvertently hurt his friend, whom he loved in so many ways, hurt him more.

D'Artagnan couldn't meet Athos' eyes because of the shock. "Was it truly so plain to see?"

"For those of us who were looking," Athos replied, softly. "Yes."

"But-"

Athos took his chin in a gentle hand and made him meet his eyes. They were completely devoid of judgment and full of nothing but compassion. There was no trace of hurt or resentment. If D'Artagnan were honest, the open honesty stole his breath away and wiped any further fears from his mind. "If I've kept your secret for all this time," Athos whispered. "Then how, on _my_ good conscience, could I punish you for it now? I've never thought of you differently because of it."

"The world would disagree with you," he whispered back.

"Then the world doesn't deserve you. And _that_ is the truth."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I am putting you in danger by sharing this-"

"Danger is everywhere. It strikes at any time. All we have ever had are moments like this, when we both know there isn't anything one wouldn't do for the other."

"What about Aramis and…the Church?"

"Aramis was never one for placing doctrine above the people who follow it. He would stand by your side, even under judgment from the entirety of Christendom."

"…Porthos?"

"You know he would. We've gone through too much to toss a friendship away over a difference of love. And his friendships are more dear to him than any promise of wealth the world could offer."

"What did I do to ever deserve your friendship?"

Athos smiled. "Too much for me to even begin to list."

"I feel ashamed that I've doubted you, Athos. What can I do to atone for it? I'll do anything."

"…I'll think of something. But for now you can sit, finish your wine, and tell me more about this complete horse shit you've been thinking these past several years about yourself."

"Yes, do tell," Porthos said from the hallway.

D'Artagnan jumped badly and froze when he saw Porthos and Aramis standing at the mouth of the hallway. Athos steadied him as he swayed from the shock and sudden discomfort. Had they-oh, of course they had! They heard every single stupid thing that came out of his stupid mouth.

Aramis, in some more casual clothes than the garb of his order that he was normally required to wear, came forward first and D'Artagnan met him with hesitation. "What Athos said was true," Aramis said. "You need never worry of my loyalty. We've faced danger for you before."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "This is different. I would never ask any of you to lie for me."

Aramis put a hand on D'Artagnan's hand in both of his. "Perhaps it is different, but not enough to scare us away. And you would never have to ask us to do anything, D'Artagnan."

Completely overcome with a sudden rush of tears, D'Artagnan surged forward and embraced Aramis with immense gratitude. Aramis returned it just as fiercely. They only had a precious moment before Porthos came bounding over and lifting the both of them off their feet. "You goose! We would never abandon you, not even if we were faced with an entire continent of the Cardinal's guards!"

"Porthos," Aramis gasped. "_Air! Now!_"

D'Artagnan laughed when he was set back on his feet, because the dizziness and weakness was not just from his body, but the sudden lightness in his soul that it had needed for years. He had never doubted his friends in anything but this, and he was sorry to have done so now. It was certainly not the first time he counted himself lucky in having their friendship, but for some reason this seemed to tug at his heart much harder than every time prior to this. In this small circle of companionship he had no reason to fear and no need to hide. And a small something told him that somehow he'd always known that.

All it seemed he had needed was the courage to face it himself.


End file.
